


flashcards, dad. duh.

by nevermetawolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Because I can okay?, Derek is a Good Boyfriend, M/M, Minor Frottage, Stiles Hates Spanish, Studying, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermetawolf/pseuds/nevermetawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In what world would dry humping help me with my Spanish?"</p>
<p>In which Derek's tutoring methods are questionable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flashcards, dad. duh.

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I really hate season 4. 
> 
> Someone please write me a fic where Allison's death is properly grieved, the McCall family talks shit out, Stiles struggles with the fact that he killed people last season like any sane person would, Malia/Kira/Lydia aren't used as token love interests, and Derek gets a job instead of another crazy girlfriend.
> 
> Also, where the heck is Danny.
> 
> I don't speak Spanish and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Unbeta'd.

* * *

 

Between the two of them, Stiles knows Derek is the better boyfriend. If someone had told him that one year ago, Stiles would have personally escorted them to Eichen House because Derek Hale lives in an abandoned train cart and spends the better half of his days stalking and threatening teenagers.

Now he does things like helping Stiles clean out his garage, enduring immensely awkward dinners with Stiles' father, driving Stiles to school in his stupid mom car when he's stayed up too late researching things of the supernatural variety (or cats, because who hasn't sought out one or two insane cat picture via the internet at some point in their life?), and pointlessly quizzing Stiles for his spanish test tomorrow that he's totally going to fail.

"You're not going to fail."

Derek Hale, Perfect Boyfriend, midnights as a motivational speaker and/or cheerleader, too, apparently. 

"Derek, I've been taking spanish for three years now and _literally_ the only thing I know how to do is ask where the restroom is," Stiles says, hopeless. "¿Cómo está el baño?"

Derek's mouth quirks upwards in the corners. "Còmo means how, not where."

The seventeen year old sighs, grabbing at the stack of index cards in Derek's lap and setting them to the side. "Never mind. Enough studying for Stiles. I'm doomed."

"You're not - "

Stiles manages to catch Derek's lips while they're forming the last word and their teeth and noses knock together a little bit, so it isn't exactly the best kiss he's initiated, but it most certainly isn't the worst. (This is Stiles we're talking about, after all.) 

As surprised as Derek is - which is absolutely ridiculously because he should be well aware by now that Stiles has made his personal mission guaranteeing Derek Hale is kissed and kissed thoroughly all day, every day - he still falls into the embrace easily and comfortably, very kindly leaning back so that they're lips fit together without Stiles having to crane his neck because Derek is considerate like that.

(In retrospect, having a significant other that can basically due an extended crunch while kissing you is sort of wonderful, in an obnoxious kind of way.)

Derek lets Stiles go farther than usual. A testament to how utterly screwed Derek realizes he's going to be on that test tomorrow, no doubt. Still, Stiles is a teenage virgin and will happily accept all forms of pity sex. Well, he would if they ever got to the actual sex-part. 

But all too soon, Stiles is sweeping his tongue along Derek's bottom lip and sneaking a hand underneath his shirt, across his abdomen, and suddenly he's back on his ass,  while Derek's reading off a highlighter yellow index card innocently. 

"That was barely five minutes," Stiles complains, lips bruised and tingling in spite of his claim.

"It was eight," Derek replies without looking up from the card.

"You know, it is so unsexy when you time our make-out sessions," Stiles says. Derek raises an eyebrow. "Well, it would be unsexy if it was physically possible for you to do anything unsexy. Seriously, not even sideburns, fangs, and a discernible lack of eyebrows could turn me off."

Derek snorts. "I think that's just your teenage hormones speaking." 

"Hey, they're two-weeks-away-from-being-adult hormones, thank you very much," Stiles protests, swatting at Derek's knee. He briefly entertains the idea of leaving his hand there, but the reprimanding look Derek fixes him with convinces him otherwise. 

"Being eighteen doesn't magically make you an adult," he reminds Stiles, gesturing back to the index card as a sign to resume their study (torture) session. Except, there's no way in hell Stiles is going to let that remark slide.

Stiles has been sexually-frustrated since middle school, and he thought having a boyfriend or girlfriend would eliminate the problem. Unless you're dating Derek Hale, which just means that you get to crave cake, stare at cake constantly, sometimes sniff cake if you're lucky, but _still no cake for you, sorry_. 

Therefore, turning eighteen was supposed to equal adulthood and therefore the legality of Stiles' relationship with his overage, werewolf inamorato. And why don't they teach Latin at BHHS? He would kick ass in Latin. California's public school system is setting him up for failure. 

"It makes you adult enough to vote, join the military, smoke, order things off infomercials, watch porn - though, to be honest, the all-powerful world wide web shot that horse in the face _years ago_ \- "

"Stiles."

"We're talking _years_ , Derek. The specific numerical value may alarm you."

"Stiles," Derek interrupts again, though his hazel eyes are bright with amusement, so Stiles isn't too worried about breaking any boundaries. "We can talk about this later. Look, I promised your dad you'd pass this test if he let me stay over tonight even though he's on duty."

"Which I'm sure took a lot of convincing," Stiles commends, shuffling closer, knees trudging with some difficulty over his comforter to the point that he almost falls into Derek's lap totally unintentionally this time. He reaches for Derek's hand in hope that it will distract his boyfriend from how completely un-suave he is. "But usually, when high school students manage to get their dad out of the house and their ridiculously hot boyfriend in it, they don't play around with spanish flash cards."

His fingertips tease lightly at Derek's thumb, and he _might_ be blinking up through his eyelashes coyly.

Derek's eyes glaze over, and his grip on Stiles' hand tightens, but because Derek has decided to be infuriatingly stubborn on this particular matter, he blinks away the daze in an instant and simply rolls his eyes.

"You're too young, Stiles. I'm too old."

"Yes, yes. I'm an innocent baby lamb and you're the creepy older lamb that wears leather jackets and has been known to favor windows over doors," Stiles responds impatiently. "Been there, done that. Derek, it's been _months_. Your material's about to have a mid-life crisis at this point. It's three gray hairs away from a new sports car. Five from a divorce and a nineteen year old that works at Hooters." 

"Bringing up a grossly stereotypical age-different relationship that's societally frowned upon isn't really helping your case."

"I'm _so_ mature." Stiles doesn't pout. He doesn't. "I do mature things all the time. I go grocery shopping. I take my jeep in for its biyearly tune-ups. I schedule doctor and dentist appointments. I epitomize mature."

"You had a conversation with your sock."

"It was an appropriately unflattering sock-puppet version of Isaac, and that was forever ago."

"That was yesterday," Derek deadpans.

"He wears scarves in hundred-degree heat, Derek," Stiles cries. "Who does that?"

Derek frowns, exasperated. "You still call it 'making-out'."

"What else would I call it?" Stiles says defensively, not entirely sure how this would be a valid reason for why they haven't advanced from making out to screwing around -

Oh. Wow. Yeah. Stiles really needs to up his love-lingo because nothing about either of those phrases screams _I'm all grown up, we can have sex now_ , like Stiles so desperately wants to. (Another horrible idea, he's sure.)

Something odd flashes across Derek's face.

Which is why he shouldn't be so shocked when Derek wrenches him closer by their clasped hands and wraps his other tightly around Stiles' waist. Lips graze against his own, feather-light and barely there, but the touch is searing and makes his stomach clench deliciously. Stiles moves his own free hand hesitantly over Derek's chest, down his stomach, and beneath his shirt at a snail's pace, and is pleasantly surprised when Derek groans, uncharacteristically loud and drawn out. The sound is such a contrast to the way his mouth is moving, still soft and fluttering, and the disparity leaves Stiles' head reeling in the best way possible.

Moving more confidently, Stiles tracks the pads of his fingers around and over Derek's abdominal muscles, feeling greedily at each and every indent where skin stretches, as if another shaking breath from Derek will tear the skin clean apart. 

That thought shouldn't be as hot as it is.

His cheeks flush at the broken noise Derek makes when he dips his fingers lower, inching them beneath the man's waistband. Again, he thinks any second now Derek will gently move his hand away and back to a more platonic placement. 

(He thinks wrong. So wonderfully wrong.)

Yeah, there are definitely hands on his ass. 

Derek's mouth twists into a smirk when Stiles releases a not very manly noise, but it's mostly from surprise, he swears. One of the warm palms - so hot he can feel it through the thick denim of his jeans - moves up, teasing along his lower back, toying with his belt loop. And then he's very un-gently, un-Derek-like manhandled into the man's lap, while he nips borderline-painfully at Stiles' bottom lip and digs blunt nails into his humanly fragile skin.

Stiles' own hands, inches away from what's kept him up at night for the past four months, are completely forgotten, falling limply to his sides as Derek grinds their hips together, one sharp, clumsy movement that restarts Stiles' heart.

This isn't happening. 

They slide against each other again, slowly, and the sensation shoots straight up his spine, making his entire body jolt and his lips tremble. He's almost certain his hips are going to be bruised from Derek's grip, but he's not about to start complaining. 

"Stiles," Derek sighs into his half open mouth, the sound swallowed almost entirely by his own heavy pants. "Stiles," he murmurs again, pairing the word with another roll of his hips. 

Stiles responding moan of _Derek_ is significantly less smoldering, but it's enough to make Derek inhale quickly, so he'll take it.

"Stiles." He shivers at the rasp in Derek's voice. "Stiles, what's the past tense conjugate for the verb 'have,' assuming the pronoun you're using is 'I'?"

The movement between their lower bodies stutters to a halt.

"Uh," Stiles answers unintelligently. "Tengo?"

"That's present tense." Derek licks at the seam of his lips before pulling back. "If you get it right, I'll keep going."

Stiles stares distractedly at Derek's mouth, dumbfounded. "Huh?"

A twist of his wrist and they're just barely continuing the motion that rendered Stiles breathless, not enough for it to cause any real satisfaction, just a torturing hint at what he could be experiencing. 

"Come on, Stiles," Derek huffs, nudging his nose against Stiles' jaw. "You know this."

Stiles most certainly doesn't know this, and even if he did, this isn't exactly the best position to be in while trying to brain storm. Or brain-anything (other than himself), for that matter.

Sensing Stiles' frustration, Derek hoists Stiles off his lap and back onto the bed, frowning guiltily. "Sorry," he says. "I thought that would help."

Every muscle in Stiles' body cries in protest, but he ignores the pathetic self-pity and focuses whatever's left of the mush pile he's pretty sure is supposed to be his fully-functioning brain on conveying his ire. "What, kill me?"

He glowers at Derek's replying laugh. "Study."

"Derek, I have a difficulty speaking _English_ when you touch me. In what world would dry humping help me with my Spanish?"

Derek at least has the grace to color slightly at this, the tips of his ears an endearing pink. "Flashcards then. We'll try those again."

Stiles groans, and it's not at all like how he'd been groaning earlier, which makes him groan again because he'd been _this_ close to an actual sexual experience that didn't result in used tissues and cold showers.

He flops onto his back like a dead fish and throws an arm over his eyes. "The answer is tuve, by the way. Tuve. Had."

If only he had remembered that five minutes ago.

There's a shuffling sound rather than a verbal response coming from Derek's direction. Stiles removes his arm and peeks over curiously just in time to catch Derek flinging his shirt across the room.

Stiles blinks, unabashedly taking in the man's naked chest, recalling the way those very same abdominal muscles had tensed under his eager touch. 

"Um, Derek?"

"What about 'we will have'?"

Stiles gulps. "Tendremos?"

Smiling approvingly, Derek unzips his zipper and shucks off his pants.

_Oh._  

Stiles ends up getting a low A on the exam. When he comes home to another one of his father's weird bonding attempts with Derek - where they end up drinking beers and watching some kind of sport in complete silence - and hands the proof to the sheriff, the older man turns to Derek, gaping. 

"What did you _do_?" his dad asks, and Derek chokes on his beer.

Stiles, on the other hand, endures his father's suspicious glare, and convincingly deploys the "flashcards, dad, duh" excuse.

Between the two of them, Derek is _obviously_ the better boyfriend. By a long-shot. Undeniably. Ten out of ten Stiles agree. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


End file.
